A House Built on Sand
by Frakme
Summary: Mary has John back, but she knows it's only temporary. Mary/John, hints of JohnLock. Post His Last Vow.


Mary stares across at the curtained window, seeing the light from the streetlamps outside slipping through the gaps. She's been woken again by a fierce kick from the baby, she's always more restless at night. Her midwife told her this was often the case when she mentioned it at her last appointment. She strokes her stomach, feeling those little kicks of the life growing inside her and sighs softly.

John is asleep next to her, snoring softly. A week has passed since the events of Christmas, John agreeing to take her back, Sherlock killing Magnusson and then his exile ending abruptly. Tonight is the first night John has spent in their flat; the last few days he spent with Sherlock, chasing after nebulous clues. She offered to help but John refused, not wanting to put her at risk. _The baby, you mean_, she thinks resentfully.

"You think you have me fooled," she whispers into the dark. "Maybe you would've forgiven the lies but you would never have taken me back if it wasn't for the baby."

She's never been a fan of self-deception, despite living a life carefully built on lies. She knew early on into their relationship with John that eventually the truth about her past would come out. Even she hadn't guessed at the dead coming back to life, though. As her slim hand idly caresses her stomach, she thinks of the man who broke her husband's heart and once again has turned his whole world upside down.

The man whose name John still cries out in his sleep, a name spoken with hopeless longing. The man who has destroyed her one chance for a normal life, yet has killed to protect her secret.

She is under no illusion why he did it. For John's sake. The selfish, self-proclaimed, high functioning sociopath found someone he cared for more than himself. John's happiness is worth the price he very nearly paid; exile and eventual death.

As for Mary, she is simply the means to an end. Sometimes she wishes she had killed him and Magnusson. It might have made life more simple. She had her escape route worked out, she is confident she would've gotten away with it. But the thought of John going through that grief again stopped her.

He was near suicidal when they met. He didn't lie, she _had_ turned his life around. The agony of seeing his closest friend commit suicide in front of him, the terrible aftermath of being thrust back into public scrutiny as the man who either aided Holmes in his deception or was his dupe had triggered his PTSD and he turned to drink to numb his pain. She stopped his downward spiral, gave him a reason to keep going and knew that deep inside he hadn't let Sherlock go, refused to believe he was really dead.

It was just a little push he needed to look to the future and they had decided to build one together. Now that future looks so fragile, despite the life growing inside her. Their daughter.

John will be a good father, already he is coming home with little gifts, toys, teddies and little outfits, ready for the new arrival. The sidecar cot is built and pushed against the wall in their bedroom for now, though it wouldn't be needed for a couple of months. The nursery is already decorated by John, ready for when the baby would eventually move into her own room. Those little toys, clothes and the comfortable rocking chair are in there, the room looking like an idyll of domestic bliss.

Mary slowly manoeuvres herself up out of bed, the clock reading '5.23'. She's given up all hope of sleep and decides to head downstairs for a cup of tea. She boils the kettle, finds the tea things and makes herself a mug. She puts it on the kitchen table and an impulse makes her get the wedding album from the living room. She sits carefully at the table, her back already aching.

Flicking through the pictures, she reflects back on that day, almost resentfully. Even then, Sherlock took the spotlight. She saw his speech for what it was, a public declaration of the affection he had for John. Looking at the faces of those who know him, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Greg Lestrade, she'd known she wasn't the only one.

Yet that night, after the wedding John told her he loved her and that she'd made him the happiest man alive. Perhaps he wasn't lying, trying to convince himself that he hadn't made a wrong choice.

There is one photo that catches her attention, Sherlock and John, talking together, their eyes fixed firmly on each other. The look of devotion on John's face, Sherlock's harder to read yet there was a softness there. She closes the album, suppressing the urge to throw it across the room. She puts it away, glad she did as she hears John's footsteps, getting up from bed. She puts the kettle on and has a mug of tea ready for him when he comes down.

"Hello, love," he says, kissing her cheek. "How long have you been up?"

"Not that long. Half an hour?"

He massages her lower back and she leans back into his touch.

"She keeping you awake again?"

Mary nods and closes her eyes.

"Only a few weeks ago and then I'll have another reason for sleepless nights," she says, trying to keep her tone light. "What are you doing today?"

"I'll take that rubbish to the tip, it'll be open today. Oh and I've got to work this afternoon. Emergency clinic. They're a bit shorthanded with Christmas and all…" his voice trails off and she knows without looking he's feeling guilty he didn't mention it last night. Then again, he'd fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow and the talk last night had all been about Moriarty and Sherlock.

She turns and smiles at him, a practised smile from one used to deceit, then wonders when John has learned to lie to himself so convincingly. Then again, he's had plenty of examples before him; Mary, Sherlock, Mycroft, even Molly have lied and lied and lied, until she wasn't sure he would ever recognise the truth.

She sits back down and watches as he makes breakfast, sipping the tea appreciatively, admiring the same economy of motion in cooking as he would employ in the most delicate surgery.

He places the breakfast dishes and they talk inanities while they eat. They get showered and dressed, she was still off work until the new year but had promised to meet with a couple of friends for coffee. Such a nice, normal activity for their nice, normal life.

She helps John load the car then waves him off, blowing him a kiss, before walking slowly back into the house. She stares around the cosy living room, the symbol of domesticity and has the urge to reign destruction on it, to smash the telly, tear down the curtains, rip apart the cushions, throw their carefully acquired knick knacks into the fake fireplace.

It's all just a thin veneer and she wonders how long will it lasts, before it's peeled back to reveal her hatred of this wretchedly mundane existence and John's longing to be with the man he thought he'd lost forever. The former army doctor turned blogger isn't the only one who craves excitement, the adrenaline rush, she misses it too. She was drawn to John for the exact same reason as he was drawn to her. Yet here they were living a facsimile of wedded bliss, the old cliché of a happy family.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers to the life inside her. "You deserve so much more than this."

She turns to the kitchen, washes up and puts the clean dishes away. She looks in the fridge, decides what to cook for lunch and dinner, before returning to the living room to dull her underused brain with daytime telly.

Her 'phone buzzes, a text from John.

_Sherlock needs me. Don't make me lunch, will see you after I finish work x_

She doesn't bother to reply. Instead she puts her feet up, closes her eyes and tries to convince herself that she what she has now is what she wants. That some day soon, the illusion she has carefully built around her won't be shattered when John finally wakes up. And that she won't feel an overwhelming sense of relief when he finally does.


End file.
